Songs for a Snake
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: A series of Grima fics based around lyrics of various rock songs.
1. Fire in the Sky

If all goes well and my muse is feeling friendly, this should develop into a series. If not... oh well. Lyrics are taken from the song "Fire in the Sky" by Ozzy Osbourne, one of the few people of our time worthy of worship-- the others are J.R.R. Tolkien, of course, and Hugo Weaving, and Johnny Depp. And hey, why not a disclaimer while I'm at it? I don't own LotR, or darling Gríma. But you knew that already. Wish I did, though, even though very little writing would get done ;)  
  
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**I. Fire in the Sky  
**  
_The introduction to his heartache began as a child   
So it's no wonder that he grew up to be so wild   
So he protected his feelings in walls he imagined   
But castles crumble exposing the frightened child  
_  
There was little joy upon the hour of my birth. In the dead of winter did I enter the world, when Rohan was covered with snow and the thatched-roof homes did not suffice to keep out the bitter cold. Like the last thin plants that struggled to push out through the snow and find the life-giving sun, I too was born weak and hungry.  
  
The birthing had drained my mother, but still, as she had often told me when I was a child, that she had smiled to see me alive and well after such an ordeal. My mother loved me, perhaps because we were rather alike. I adored her, clinging to her apron strings and the words of her bedtime tales alike; and she never ceased to offer me her undivided attention. We both were in poor health more often than not, and yet she was always the stronger, for she would be the one to get up every morning, telling me to stay in bed while she made some hot soup for the both of us.  
  
My father, however, was ashamed of me. He thought it impugnation of his honor to have such a sickly boy as his only child. He had said many times to my mother when he thought I was sleeping, that even a strong maid- child would have been better than me.  
  
As I grew older, he tried – "tried" being the key word – to teach me what he called "the fine art of swordplay." It was, of course, sheer folly on his part to attempt teaching anything about weaponry to a boy who was far too often bedridden. Swords were heavy and unwieldy things; I had interest in another thing: the world of words. My mother found books for me that I might pass the time, and I was fascinated with facts and tales about everything under the wretched sun that made my eyes hurt and my skin itch. I attempted to explain to my father numerous times that physical force was completely unnecessary under most circumstances, for a clever speaker could talk his way out of anything or convince a man to throw himself into a fire depending on his desire. Words could start or end a war as simply as a battle.  
  
Suffice to say that my father and I never saw eye to eye.  
  
When I was weak with sickness he called me a failure, and I would try to hide my tears as he shouted in frustration. He would storm out and my mother would come with soft words and a loving maternal embrace. I could never hide anything from her, and we would weep together in my lonely little corner of the house.  
  
Understand this: my father was not a bad man, nor a cruel man. He had desired what all fathers wish, and that is a son who they might shape in their own likeness and teach to love what they love. Looking back at him now I realize the frustration he must have felt. This does not, however, make me stop detesting him, nor does it make me regret his death.  
  
I have come to believe that all people are born clean and accepting, and that the experiences we go through shape us along the way. Sadly, a few too many dark stains were made upon me, and I came to hate my father with all the passion I could muster. I envisioned him dying a thousand times, sometimes at my own frail hands, sometimes in battle against those fearsome creatures he abhorred, sometimes in a tragic accident. Most of all, I rather enjoyed the thought of our humble house burning down with him trapped inside. My mother and I would escape, though, and start a new life somewhere else, free from him.  
  
I once told my mother that I had been having these thoughts. Her face grew grim and she said to me quite seriously that she could not control what went on in my mind, but that she never wished to hear me speak that way again. She said that since I understood the power of words, I should know better, for often to speak a thing is to make it so.  
  
It was because of this that after my mother blew out the candle and left me in the dark every night, that I would whisper quietly into my pillow, "Let him burn."  
  
_Fire in the sky   
Can't you see that all my castles are burning   
Fire in the sky   
Won't you help me now my castles are burning_  
  
Since I had proved myself thoroughly incapable of proving any use to the Riders of Rohan, my father had, as if to make up for this incompetence, become even more vehement in his hunting of orcs. A renowned Rider himself, he would go on hunts, then return and go to the mead-hall where he would boast of how many of the beasts he had killed. He had long realized that to share these tales at home was to have as responses only encouraging, tolerant smiles from my mother and dark looks from me; at least at the hall he had the pleasure of being intoxicated and being surrounded by people that matched his own intelligence.  
  
After one of many of his little hunting parties, he did not return. He and his company had become the prey when the orcs laid siege to their camp and set it ablaze. Only a few survived, and they too died of wounds shortly after gasping out their unfortunate tale.  
  
My mother was thrown into shock at the news. When at last she accepted it, she collapsed in my arms and sobbed as though the world was ending. I tried to comfort her and tell her that we didn't need him, that we would be just fine without him. I was then, unfortunately, only a reader of words and not yet an overly convincing speaker, and something in her eye changed as she pulled away.  
  
She had remembered the things I had said about his death; I knew this even though she never told me so. I knew because she refused to look at me for days. To lie and say that I truly was sorry for his death would perhaps have been an easier way out, but she was the only one to whom I would not lie.  
  
_In solitude he couldn't deal with his own existence   
The burning questions in the castles have still remained   
God only knows how he searched in vain for the answers   
Now castles crumble exposing his naked flames_  
  
Things healed between us; they had to, for we were all each other had. But after some time, she fell more ill than I had ever seen her. Night and day I cared for her; for once in my life I had to be the stronger one. I read every book on medicine which I could find – and they were scarce indeed – but I might as well have been trying to cheat Death itself. She died just before I reached my seventeenth year. Death took her as she slept, as I sat at her bedside holding her weak hand in mine. She looked as though all her cares had been washed away.  
  
She was at peace, but for the first time in my life I knew what it was like not just to be lonely, but to be truly and utterly alone.   
  
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Well, what do you guys think? I'm rather fond it it ;) Hey! I'm listening to "Canon" by Pachelbel and it's officially the best piece of classical music ever written! lol... please review and you'll get a Grima plushie!


	2. The Unforgiven

Grima shuffled out onto the stage. "I've been entrusted to deliver a disclaimer. But, being sneaky and bent on undermining authority, I'm not going to!" he laughed.  
ElvenPirate41 joined him in a tizzy. "Come on, Grima, you have to. If you don't I'll take away your 'Shieldmaidens Gone Wild' magazine."  
Grima hurried to get the disclaimer done. "Right, so she doesn't own any of this stuff. Except Heruthain. She owns him, the little bastard."  
"Don't worry; he's being punished for his wrongful deeds against you," EP41 said, rubbing her palms together rather evilly. "Go on."  
"She owns some DVDs and some books, but not Middle-earth," Grima continued. "Or the Metallica lyrics on which this chapter is based. Or me."  
"Of course I own you! You're my muse!" EP41 cackled, returning to Grima his Eowyn centerfold.  
  
Right! So without further ado, Chapter 2, based on Metallica's "The Unforgiven."  
  
-------------------------  
  
II. The Unforgiven  
  
_New blood joins this earth   
And quickly he's subdued   
Through constant pain disgrace   
The young boy learns their rules_  
  
I didn't ask to be born the way I was. Do you honestly believe that I enjoy my state of being? I know that I am nothing short of repulsive, and have always been. Unfortunately, children are the cruelest of creatures, and they knew it too. I suppose it was simply for my bodily weakness that they singled me out from the start. All the people of Rohan are strong, tall, and full of health and vitality – save myself. Perhaps they simply could not resist the chance to make unbearable the life of an outsider.  
  
Whispers behind hands became purposely more audible as I grew older. I never made a very valiant attempt to befriend anyone, but then again, I hardly consider myself the brave or charismatic type. I was not bitter or hateful then, simply indifferent. I knew that I was not like the others, but I felt that I didn't need them. I imagine they only interpreted this as snobbery and therefore made it their mission to make me as miserable as possible.  
  
_With time the child draws in   
This whipping boy done wrong   
Deprived of all his thoughts   
The young man struggles on and on_  
  
As I came to realize that I was completely unwanted everywhere but in my own home, I became quite withdrawn. On the rare occasion that I was healthy enough to go outside, I kept my head down and my eyes averted. Worm, they came to call me, because I crawled, because I avoided the light.  
  
A boy would say as I hurried through the streets with books in tow, "D'you think he'll ever make it back home with all those?"  
  
His friend would shake his head. "Ten to one he drops them all. What a bookworm."  
  
"Naw, he's just a worm, plain and simple."  
  
What? Do you not find the pun amusing? They certainly did.  
  
How clever, how strong they thought themselves. If strength is tormenting someone weaker than oneself, if cleverness is being able to shatter someone's views of life, then I suppose they were right in their thinking.  
  
After some time, teasing ceased to be a problem. I acquired the ability to ignore it and let the words run off me, but like the worst poison, they tainted all they touched nonetheless. It is true, what they say, and I have proven it time and time again here in Edoras: words hurt far more than any wound, and fester all the longer.  
  
Physically, I was more or less left alone. Often I was sick, and no one wanted to come near me out of sheer disgust. Sometimes, though, the older boys would put aside all apprehensions and push me around, perhaps shove me so I fell and dropped whatever parchments and tomes I happened to be carrying.  
  
One time I fought back.  
  
I was around thirteen, if I remember correctly, and I had come to know what it meant when they began following me as I made my way back home. I had with me that day an inkwell, new and filled to its corked top. Ink was precious, and few in Edoras even needed it, save the kings' scribes and bookkeepers.  
  
I was surrounded in the usual circle formation. _I mustn't get angry,_ I told myself. _It shows that I'm stronger._ I recited the first few Tengwar in my head, like a mantra.  
  
_Tinco, parma, calma, quessë.  
_  
"What have you got there, Wormy?" their leader said. Oh, how I hated that boy. Heruthain was his name. He was sixteen at the time and all the girls simply adored him. I cursed every breath he drew.  
  
"Nothing that would be of any use or interest to you," I said, unable to resist a small insult.  
  
"Well, let's see. Let's have a look, shall we?" he said, extending his hand.  
  
I tried to stuff the inkwell in my pocket. "You wouldn't want it." He grabbed my arm and plucked the inkwell from my hand.  
  
"What's this for? Writing something epic, are we?" I snatched for it and grabbed only air.  
  
"It's just ink, give it back!" I said.  
  
_Tinco, parma, calma, quessë.  
_  
"Why's it so important to you, Wormy?" Heruthain taunted. "You should be learning to ride a horse, not skulking and scribbling all the time."  
  
"Yeah, my five-year-old sister can ride already, why can't you?" one of the others joined in.  
  
"I can ride a bloody horse," I insisted angrily as I continued on my quest to retrieve my inkwell.  
  
"Watch your tongue," Heruthain chastised. "Wouldn't want mummy to yell at you."  
  
"Shut up," I growled.  
  
_Tinco, parma, calma, quessë._  
  
"You know, Wormy, something's been preying on my mind," he said in mock contemplation, as if a single intelligent thought had ever graced his brain. "Why is it that you don't look like the rest of us? Your mother and father both look pretty normal, unless of course your father isn't really your father, which would make your mother—"  
  
At that instant I lunged at him, delivering a punch to his eye that made him stagger back in shock. The inkwell fell to the ground and smashed.  
  
Heruthain touched his eye and glared at me. I was prepared to fight him, fool that I was. He moved towards me, and I raised my arms to block him, but in an instant I was seeing stars and the whole world was spinning. I looked up from the ground to see him standing over me.  
  
He kicked me sharply in the side, and I gasped in pain. "Don't ever touch me, you freak," he said, and he and his miscreants all stalked off.  
  
_He's known   
A vow unto his own   
That never from this day   
His will they'll take away_  
  
I would not allow him to insult my sweet mother, my sole friend, and yet live. As I picked myself up and left the shards of glass in the dust, I swore to myself that someday I would make him regret that he had done. Never would I allow them to rule me.  
  
Someday they would all in vain curse the name Gríma, and I would laugh.  
  
_What I've felt   
What I've known   
Never shined through in what I've shown   
Never be   
Never see   
Won't see what might have been  
  
What I've felt   
What I've known   
Never shined through in what I've shown   
Never free   
Never me   
So I dub thee unforgiven_  
  
All of them, unforgiven. I remembered the name and face of each of my tormenters; I went out of my way to learn who they were.  
  
I do not blame them entirely for my present state, and yet I wonder if I would have turned out differently had I only been left alone. I certainly never would have had the motivation to rise to the position of councilor. It was not about power, but revenge. A dish best served cold, I believe the saying goes.  
  
_They dedicate their lives   
To running all of his   
He tries to please them all   
This bitter man he is_  
  
A few years after my mother died, I became a scribe for the king. I held one of the least necessary positions in all of Meduseld, but it gave me plenty of time to learn the ropes of the place, its comings and goings and its little secrets. It was a low job, and even then I suffered the insults of the guards and doorwardens. They fancied me a servant or errand- runner rather than one in service of the king of Rohan. Always beneath them.  
  
I strove to change that.  
  
It took all my willpower, because it meant weathering everything they gave me. It meant simpering and bowing and doing their bidding. But it was all worth it, because my loyalty caught the king's eye. Théoden advanced me to chief record-keeper, and I spent hours with him writing notes pertaining to supplies, weaponry, crop yields, and legal matters.  
  
What good is a king who can barely do anything more than sign his own name? A king should be shrewd and clever, not a mere leader in battle. Do not mistake me – I have no desire to be king, nor have I ever desired it. It strikes me as a bit ridiculous, though, that the leader of an entire country is practically illiterate.  
  
My skill was not unnoticed by Théoden; within a year he named me one of his councilors.  
  
_Throughout his life the same   
He's battled constantly   
This fight he cannot win   
A tired man they see no longer cares   
The old man then prepares   
To die regretfully   
That old man here is me_  
  
They thought they had me beaten. They thought I would never win. But, it was at that time Saruman first came to me and promised me all I could ever want – safety, the ability to exact my revenge, and most importantly, Éowyn. It was impossible to say no.  
  
He helped me affect Théoden's mind so that I quickly became chief councilor. He was not indisposed in those days as he is now, but my words were silver to him. It was only a matter of time before I was getting my revenge on those who had made my childhood torture. Some of them were sent on hopeless Orc-hunts and never returned. Others simply had to answer to me, and that was enough.  
  
As for Heruthain, I made sure that he suffered. I was able to convince Théoden that he was a traitor and a reputed coward and deserter in battle, and Théoden had him exiled. I have heard that he was waylaid and killed by Orcs somewhere in the Westfold.  
  
I have grown old before my time. I am barely five and thirty, but I am as twisted and vile as the eldest of any mortal man. My existence is somewhat pitiful, yes, but I am no longer the defenseless worm I once was. The only thing sweeter than revenge is Éowyn, and for now the former is the more attainable.  
  
_What I've felt   
What I've known   
Never shined through in what I've shown   
Never be   
Never see   
Won't see what might have been  
  
What I've felt   
What I've known   
Never shined through in what I've shown   
Never free   
Never me   
So I dub thee unforgiven  
  
You labeled me   
I'll label you   
So I dub thee unforgiven  
  
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_Want to review? I worked reaaaaally hard on this one!  
  
Review Responses:  
  
**Lady Baelish**-- Little Grima's really cute, isn't he? Lol. Thanks for another kind review, you rock! The first person POV is ever so fun to write. I write most of my stories in advance and then post, but that's just because I only recently learned how to upload my fics. However, Grima just keeps insisting on being written, and he won't shut up. So, you can probably expect lots of fun fics revolving around him in the future!


	3. Kissing the Shadows

I'm too lazy to write an amusing intro, so here's the next installment straight off. I don't own this stuff, but you knew that already. The lyrics belong to Children of Bodom. Hooray for angry bands from Finland!  
  
**-------------------------------------------**

**III. Kissing the Shadows**

We now come upon the most important matter of all: Éowyn. For years I have known her and yet she still fancies herself a mystery to me. We first met when she was five years old, she a curious child and I an introverted teenager. An unlikely pair we were, and yet it was not uncommon to see us poring over a map together. My fondest memories of youth are indeed those of me telling her stories of the world as she listened raptly.

_High above your shadow smiles at me  
__Way down below I hear your serene breath_

But young we are no longer; I am wretched and she is sad. No more is she a sweet child, but a woman touched by grief, like the simbelmynë which struggle to survive after a frost-laden night when silver clings to their soft petals. She haunts me as I haunt her.

A pale shadow she is, a specter of happiness lost. She reminds me of so many things know gone – purity, honor, pride. Always the unattainable, as is she.

And yet there was a time, though it is strange to consider, in which she was not so grave. These simple memories are the ones which keep me sane, I believe. Otherwise I would forsake all.

_I'm running after you throughout  
__The valleys of tormented souls_

When she was young she was eager to learn all she could from me. But at times, she would grow tired of stories and from our seat of exile spring with boundless energy.

"Come on, Gríma! Let's play something!"

I was, despite my vast knowledge, completely ignorant regarding children's games. Luckily, she solved the problem for me.

"Come on! Bet you can't catch me!" she cried, and danced out of my reach. I moved towards her and she shrieked gleefully, running off. I was therefore obliged to run after her.

She was right—I couldn't catch her. After chasing her for a few minutes I tired, being a sedentary person by nature.

"Slowpoke! Can't catch me!" she teased with a devilish smile.

"You win," I gasped out, willing to admit defeat if only she'd stop making me chase her around.

Her brow furrowed as she came up to me and stuck her arm out. "Don't be silly. Come on, I'm right here."

I lightly tapped her outstretched arm. "Got you."

I could only catch her when she let me, and so it is even now. Cold she is to me, and I cannot break through her shield of solemnity save when she herself takes it down.

She should have continued to smile every day for the years to come, but Fate is cruel and deemed it time for sorrow. Her father Éomund was slain in an Orc-raid nearly two years later, as my own father had been. She came tearfully to me, explaining that her brother wouldn't say a word and her mother was too upset to speak yet.

"No one will talk to me, Gríma. I don't know what to do," she sobbed, her grey eyes drowning in tears. I awkwardly hugged and comforted her as best I could – not very well, I fear – but eventually her cries abated to mere sniffles. "What did you do when your father died?" she asked me, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

I hardly could tell a seven-year-old that I had been glad of his death, so I chose my words carefully. "Well," I began, "my father didn't love me very much like yours did. So instead of crying, I helped my mother feel better." That was the watered-down and abridged version of the grisly tale.

She seemed to contemplate this idea for a while. "So can I help my mother?"

"If anyone can, it's you." She smiled and wiped her eyes a final time. "Gríma?"

"Yes?"

"Why didn't your father love you?" The question was asked with such innocence that I was momentarily stunned. Now doubt now she could come up with a thousand different answers, but I suppose the idea of an unloving parent is unfathomable to a happy child.

This was another question which required a well-thought out answer. "Because I could never do the things he expected of me," I told her, trying to prevent my tone from being laced with bitterness. "He was angry because I could barely ride or wield a sword. He wanted a normal son and... he got me instead." I trailed off and young Éowyn looked pensive.

"That's too bad," she said finally. "I don't think he sounds very nice anyway."

I nearly grinned at the comment but checked myself. "It doesn't matter anymore. What does matter is the fact that you have a family to cheer up."

"You're right," she declared, and with a quick goodbye she scampered off.

_You're so far away; I can feel your scent  
__When it carries your shadow  
__And if you truly want I'll cross the line  
__I'll follow_

But alas, Théodwyn was inconsolable, and she died a few short months later. It was then that Éowyn, my beautiful flower, began to grow cold. She went to live in Meduseld with her uncle, and for a while after the death she and her brother were inseparable. I saw her not for several months, and then one day she returned with a sad expression on her small white face.

"I couldn't make her happy again," she lamented regretfully. "So she died."

I hated to see her so, with her innocence destroyed and unmerited guilt gnawing at her mind. Her smiles became wan and jaded, her laughter mirthless. In time joy was hers again, but she held a ghostlike sadness about her which I sought to ease away. I would tell her stories of Haleth daughter of Haldad, the heroine of old who saved her people from invading Orcs and brought them to them prosperity in the Forest of Brethil. While this would cheer her temporarily, she would slip back into sorrow and my attempts were in vain.

_I'm dreaming my way out from down below  
__To get wherever you're haunting from, I'll go_

When I too went to live at Meduseld, Éowyn was ecstatic. "I'll see you all the time!" she had said excitedly. "You can tell me stories every day!" She had fairly dragged me by the hand around the Golden Hall for a tour. I knew most of what she was telling me, but humored her nonetheless.

"Everyone feasts here in the main hall after a victory in battle," she told me with bright eyes. "And this," she said, pulling me over to the large throne, "is where Uncle Théoden sits and rules." She took me through various wings and corridors, barely pausing for breath between explanations of everything anyone would ever want to know about Meduseld.

"That's Éomer's room." She pointed at a closed door. "But you can't go in there. He doesn't let anyone in there most of the time." She pulled me down the hall to another door. "And this is my room," she said, proudly flinging the door open.

Now the thought of Éowyn ever dragging me into her bedchamber fills me with a grim amusement. But life was simpler then, and the cruelty of the world had touched us but had not yet taken hold of us.

It was a nice room, I told her, although dominated by the omnipresent and somewhat tiresome horse motif, which I didn't tell her. I allowed her to show me how the window looked out at the southern plains and the White Mountains. She thrust various toys at me and I admired them to her satisfaction. She would hear nothing of playing with dolls; the toys she loved best were little carven horses and soldiers, and wooden swords and shields. Hung on the wall was a real sword, short to fit her small frame, a birthday present from her uncle, she said.

The one doll she possessed was a crudely sewn stuffed horse that she had made herself, she told me with a pleased grin. She called it Folca, and though the poor creature could boast only button eyes and a mane and tail of yarn, she adored it. I know for a fact that to this day the little rag-stuffed horse remains in a chest in her bower, a memory of happier days.

_I'm kissing the shadows you surround me with  
__To feel my pain vanishing away from me_

So many memories are now shadows in my mind, dimly providing solace in these difficult days. I cherish every one of them as if they were the Great Jewels of lore; they sustain me and serve as a reminder that Éowyn is not as aloof and untouchable as she would have me believe. A child dwells yet in my memory, and this child's happiness remains somewhere within my lady. Like a butterfly it may be coaxed out from its hiding-place to take flight. But for now, these thoughts are enough.

For we are both dealers of the shadows: I creep among them and she rejects mine, while surrounding herself with her own. I cling to the past, and she tries to forget it. We are night and day, different and yet necessary for the other to be what it is. The Day needs the Night for release and freedom, just as the Night needs the Day for the hope of light.

_You're touching the shadows I'm surrounding you with  
__So together in peace we shall be_

_--------------------------------------------------_

This lack of paragraph indentation is weird... I suppose I'll get used to it. Would anyone like to review?


	4. Feel For You

Once more too lazy to write an intro. So sue me. The characters aren't mine, as always, and the lyrics belong to Nightwish. I changed the order of some of the lyrics around to fit the story better; nothing too drastic. Plus this has not been beta'd, since ShelobTinuviel has been away without internet access half the fricking summer. ::grumble grumble:: Anyhow, enjoy!  
  
**IV. Feel for You**

_You were my first love  
__The earth moving under me  
__Bedroom scent, beauty ardent  
__Distant shiver, heaven sent_

I watched her grow from a child to a woman in the halls of Meduseld. For a time we continued to be close, but gradually we saw less of each other. I became quite busy with matters of the country as Théoden's councilor, and she suddenly had no time for her unsightly companion as her teenage years grew nigh. Never was she unfriendly, but we simply grew apart as she grew older. This was only understandable, and I kept myself occupied in aid of the king.

It continued this way for several years, I believe from the time when Éowyn was barely thirteen until she was sixteen. By then we were hardly speaking, save for the exchange of polite pleasantries. I noted that she was growing up beautifully, but thought little more of it.

It was around this time that Saruman the White bade me do his work in Edoras. A simple task, he assured me: to diminish the strength and will of Théoden King. The wizard used a good deal of flattery, saying that in a race of crude, simple, bestial people I was the sole intelligent one. He pointed out that Théoden depended on me for so much and that without me the kingdom would be nothing.

He promised me anything I wanted. "Name your desire," he said with a voice that rang clear and enticing, "and when you have completed this task to satisfaction I shall grant it."

I knew not exactly what his intentions were for Rohan, but it was clear they were dark. I questioned him of this and he waved the inquiry aside with his long hand.

"You shall no longer have to live among the riffraff of Rohan," he declared. "You shall be wealthy, powerful. You will no longer play servant to a king of dogs!"

What he promised was enough to tempt any man of ambition, and so I accepted, saying that I needed only a little time to decide what it was I wanted most in the world.

With Saruman's influences, I began to gain a greater control over Théoden's mind. He would not make a decision about the kingdom without first consulting me. From there it continued until I could suggest something to him, and nine times out of ten he would make a policy out of it immediately. I rarely saw Éowyn, so engrossed I was with my task.

But one night I finally did see her. She was seventeen and looked as one of the Valier come to walk before my very eyes, wearing a white dress that flattered her womanly shape which I had barely noticed previously. Rays of moonlight came through the window and shone on her golden hair and sparkled in her eyes. These seemed to still flicker with the rebellious spirit I had known her for when she was young. She was walking briskly through the hall, and I had stopped in awe of her.

"Good evening, Councilor Gríma," she said with a smile as she passed.

"Good evening," I managed to say without faltering, watching her continue on her way.

It was then that I knew what it was I desired. I went to Saruman and told him of her, how she was what I wanted above everything else.

The wizard looked at me in scrutiny. "I offer you riches, power beyond anything you can image, and all you wish for is a woman? Why do you simply not take her and be done with it?"

This was unthinkable. "My lord, what you have asked of me requires caution and subtlety. Théoden must trust me, and, respectfully, I hardly think raping his niece would be the proper way to achieve that."

"Very well, then," said Saruman. "You shall have this Éowyn wench if it is your wish." I nearly objected to the term he used for her; he spat her name out as if it caused an unpleasant taste in his mouth. She was no common wench; she was noble, regal, perfect. I thought to speak would be unwise, however, and so I kept silent.

"But when you are through with the king," he continued, "he shall neither show a care nor comprehend it no matter what you do to the girl." He handed me several vials containing clear liquids. "Put a small dosage of this in his goblet each night. His health will diminish and he will become more dependent on you than ever."

I did as I was told and began to slip the slow poison into Théoden's drink. He began to grow weary and weak despite the fact that he was not a very old man. For a time nothing was suspected, and I assured the worried court that Théoden was merely a little ill. However, people began to talk. As my influence over the king grew, they suspected that something was amiss. I then obtained the title of Wormtongue, which like a scar I carry to this day. Éomer adopted use of the name rather quickly, but Éowyn did not, as if she did not want to believe that the Golden Hall housed a traitor. I suppose that she eventually came to notice hoe my eyes would long linger on her, and then she too turned on me.

_I'm the snow on your lips  
__The freezing taste, the silvery sip  
__I'm the breath on your hair  
__Endless nightmare, devil's lair_

I refused to give up on her. I would watch her from the shadows; I would catch her alone that I might speak to her. Her responses were cordial but curt, and she would end any conversation as quickly as possible. I believe she began to dread my presence, but I cared little. While I did not wish to make her unhappy, I _needed_ to speak with her, I _needed _to see her. It was essential for my survival, and for my sanity.

I fancied her mine; I, doglike, would do anything for a kind glance or an approving word. Her smile alone was worth any effort, however rarely it was shown.

Saruman's next order was to have Théoden decree a cease of the Orc-hunts which protected Rohan from siege. It was all too easy. I told the torpid king that whether a few stray Orcs roamed the borders of the Mark was not important, because Edoras was fortified. In seconds I convinced him that as king he had far more important things to do than risk his soldiers' lives on pointless hunts, and from then on, Théoden no longer authorized them.

_Only so many times I can say I long for you  
__The lily among the thorns, the prey among the wolves_

Perhaps Éowyn was lily-fair, but she was not without her own thorns. She came to downright despise me as the king forbade his Riders to go on hunts without his consent. She was not like the great lumbering fools which inhabited most of Edoras. She was clever and shrewd, seeing through me when some still did not.

Nor was she helpless, despite that her fate – unbeknownst to her – had already been determined by the accord I had with Saruman. It seemed that she made a point of practicing her swordplay constantly, as if in warning to me should I attempt to usurp the throne or take advantage of her. I would watch her as she did this, enraptured by her grace and her cold resolve. Sometimes she would notice me, lurking in the shadows, and she would cast me a haughty glace and carry on with twice the strength. This, of course, only served to heighten my admiration. But often she would be so consumed by what she was doing that I would remain unseen. I would stand silently and marvel at her poise, the way her hair shone and flew about her as she turned, the unfaltering motions of her slender body, the way her steel-grey eyes narrowed in concentration. There was nothing about her which I did not love – her rare musical laugh, her scorn for me, her harsh glares, and her light footsteps. All I needed was to be near her, for I held the promise of having her at last ever in my mind.

_Someday I will feed a snake  
__Drink her venom, stay awake  
__With time all pain will fade  
__Through your memory I will wade_

It is this thought which sustains me. She will be mine someday, without a doubt. I will save her. From what I now understand, Saruman intends to destroy the people of Rohan. It is likely that those who are not slain will be made thralls, and kept in chains save when they are called upon to do the wizard's bidding. But Éowyn shall never be stooped so low. She will be safe, protected by Saruman's promise.

Then she will understand. I will gain her trust, regain her friendship, and possess her heart. I have envisioned it a thousand times; it will be difficult but it can be done. All will be forgiven between us. Her hatred will dissolve and all her hurts will end. There will no longer be reason for her to despair, for she shall finally be recognized for the extraordinary woman she has become. She thinks she needs her uncle and her brother, thinks they love her. They cannot, for I see how oppressed she feels under their control. She wants strength, freedom, and power, and so she shall have it.

And she will not fear me; she will not loathe me and shudder at my presence. Life will not be a dreary pain for her anymore.

_This one is for you  
__For you, only for you  
__Just give in to it, never think again  
__I feel for you_

She does not seem to comprehend that I know her as well as I know myself, if not better. When she smiles I am glad; when she mourns I too feel her sorrow. I understand her loneliness, how it preys like a grim specter upon the soul and leaves one empty.

When we met we were so similar, both shunned and longing to know about the world outside the high walls of Meduseld. Today I scheme and she dreams, but one thing the two of us has never changed: our desires for the unattainable. Then if was simply knowledge, and now it is my White Lady. But she has always wished for glory and renown such as are heard in the songs of old. She does not hide her desires as well as she thinks; I can tell by the way she wields her blade and tends lovingly to her horse that she tires of her position in Meduseld. She grows weary of tending to an old man when she is strong and bold; she resents being caged within the halls of her sires until the end of her days. I will take her away from this ignoble fate. Never then will she have to live in servitude. Never will she suffer.

_Barely cold in her grave  
__Barely warm in my bed_

Saruman was right: I could have her if it was my wish. I am not particularly strong, but it is likely that I could overpower her while she is unarmed and unsuspecting. Théoden would never know. Éowyn would never admit to having been raped, I am sure, so Éomer would not interfere either. No doubt her retribution, though, would be swift and wrathful, and she would slay me as soon as she could.

But none of this analysis is necessary, for I have never nor would ever do this to my Éowyn. Never would I torment her so, never would I cause her such shame and anguish. No, when at last she is mine it will be by her consent and requited love. Then she will realize that she need not feel alone, that I know and love her like no other can.

She may now hate me, but in time I will set her free.

_Settling for a draw tonight  
Puppet girl, your strings are mine  
  
_Wanna review? See, Auri reviewed! Be cool like her and drop one by.  
  
Review Response:  
  
**auri mynonys** -- Thanks, any comparison to "Second Half of Scissors" is a massive compliment! Here's your plushie!


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